


Growing Pains

by jasmasson



Category: The Iliad - Homer, Troy (2004)
Genre: Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-14
Updated: 2011-05-14
Packaged: 2017-10-19 09:38:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/199458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jasmasson/pseuds/jasmasson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paris grows up in Troy...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2005. More 'Troy' movieverse than Homer, as Paris is not abandoned as a child.

***

Paris was a curse. They had known it since he was a baby. The seers had foretold that Paris - a squalling, tiny newborn baby - would cause the downfall and ruin of Troy.

Their father was an honourable man, and a great king. He believed in the omens and the Gods, and reluctantly he had agreed to abandon Paris for the sake of his city.

But Hector, ten years old, had looked at his baby brother - who cooed happily whenever Hector held him, who smiled like the sun shining, who giggled when Hector tickled him and who gripped his fingers with a tiny fist - and wept. Pleaded with his father not to take Paris away, and finally Priam, not wanting to abandon his son in his heart, had acceded to Hector's wishes and allowed him to stay.

Sometimes, Hector wondered if the desperate protectiveness and responsibility he'd always felt for his brother dated back to that moment. As if by persuading their father not to send Paris away he was now responsible for ensuring that Paris caused no harm.

***

Hector had found it almost impossible to deny his brother anything. For example, his own favorite toy, a small wooden horse, had been Paris's the moment he laid his curious brown eyes on it.

Paris was holding the toy now, clutching it to his chest, as he stood in the doorway to Hector's chamber, as Hector sat up in bed.

He rubbed sleep out of his eyes, wondering what had woken him when he heard a sniff from the doorway. His eyes fell on the small, sad figure.

"Paris?"

This was apparently encouragement enough, because Paris ran into the room and jumped into Hector's bed, throwing himself into his brother's arms.

Hector held him tightly, rubbing at the chilled skin of his brother's arms. Paris hated to be cold, and he hated to be alone.

Warm dark curls tickled Hector's nose as his brother sniffled into his neck.

"Another nightmare, Paris?"

Paris nodded, hiccupping softly.

"You should have woken your nurse," he reprimanded Paris gently, absently wondering if he should tell his father the woman specifically employed to ward off Paris's night terrors had fallen asleep again.

Paris clung more tightly to his brother in response, and Hector knew he had slipped deliberately quietly out to come to him.

Hector stroked his brother's back soothingly until the trembling stopped and Paris sighed, slipping down to nestle contentedly in Hector's arms.

"Warm," he murmured softly as he settled down to sleep.

Hector fleetingly thought about sending Paris back to his bed, but a glance down at the deceptively angelic, tear-stained face was enough to cut off the thought before it was fully formed, and he settled down as well, hugging Paris tightly.

Whoever had told Paris three months ago that he should have been abandoned as a child - and Hector suspected one of their other brothers in a fit of jealousy - had been terribly cruel.

Even at five, when Paris had run sobbing to his parents, he'd seen the truth on their faces despite their denials. Paris had only allowed Hector to comfort him, as if he somehow, impossibly, remembered Hector saving him from abandonment five years ago.

Hector hugged his brother tighter, sharing his warmth as he slipped off to sleep. He had saved his brother from the reality of abandonment before, the terrible loneliness and cold, and he could protect him from the ghosts of it now.

He always would.

***

The royal house of Troy had never known a more spoiled, wilful child. Paris was outrageously indulged by all - perhaps from guilt at his near abandonment, perhaps from simple defencelessness against the boy's beauty and charms - charms which were used to ruthless effect by a ten-year-old tyrant. But it had also never known one so beloved. Hector knew that his parents loved him, but Paris was favored beyond all others.

The entire court, the servants, the citizens of Troy, all fell before his sweet face, and Hector smiled when the women of the court declared him to be the most delightful child they had ever known... they had never had to stop him playing to go to bed, or sent him to bathe.

Despite Hector's own, much clearer, knowledge of his brother's faults, no one else was more frantic as the palace was torn apart in desperation.

Prince Paris was missing and alarm spread like wildfire through the royal household.

At twenty, Hector was already the leader of Troy's army, although he still relied heavily on his more experienced soldiers and advisors. He had fought many battles, and killed many men. In his heart he had known no fear as he had gone to war; knowing he was protecting his home, knowing he was fulfilling his destiny.

It had been years since he had been bested in any competition, and he was already taller and stronger than most men would ever be. He felt no fear as he faced opponents over his sword and shield; indeed he enjoyed the fierce contest, the stretch of his muscles, the grace of the fight. No. He had never known fear like this, fear that caused his heart to pound and his blood to ring in his ears, as he searched the countryside frantically.

He shouldn't have heard his name. Over the distance separating them, the horses' hooves and the voices of the other men searching for their Prince, but he did.

He whirled his horse about and sped towards the solitary figure, skinny and bedraggled, barely discernable in the dim light.

He slid off his horse as he arrived, reaching blindly for his brother.

"Paris!" He grabbed the slim shoulders, almost crying in relief. "Where have you been?!"

"I went for a ride..."

"A ride!" Hector saw the undamaged limbs, so different from the images of bloody hair and broken bones that had danced grotesquely in his imagination, and felt his relief turn to anger. "You fool! You brat!" Needing to express himself physically he shook his brother hard. "The entire city is out looking for you! We were worried sick."

"I'm s-sorry," Paris choked out between shakes and Hector realised what he was doing and stopped, still clutching his brother's arms.

"You're sorry." He sighed. "Paris, you are a Prince of Troy. You cannot act so irresponsibly."

Paris's nodded, his averted face downcast, and Hector felt his anger crack.

He sighed again, "We'd better get you home."

Paris looked up, and in the dim light Hector could see the tears on his face.

"I was cold, Hector," he whispered softly. "And all alone."

Hector's anger disintegrated entirely with no further token resistance. He realised how cold the flesh under his hands was, and how desperately Paris's small slender fingers grasped his own muscled arms.

Hector groaned and enveloped his brother in his arms. Paris clung to him tightly, wrapping his legs around Hector's waist and sobbing quietly into his shoulder.

"Hush now," he murmured soothingly, rubbing Paris's back and kissing his soft curls. "It's alright. I'm here."

"Knew you would," Paris whispered, between sobs, "I knew you would come."

"Shh. I've got you."

He reached his horse, ignoring the other men who had been searching with him. Paris refused to let go, so he awkwardly manoeuvred himself and his precious, maddening bundle onto the horse.

He sat Paris in front of him, sat sideways and nestled into his chest and urged the horse home.

Paris sighed in contentment. Then he looked up. His face suddenly became a little knowing.

"Do you love me, brother?" he asked, slyly.

Warning bells rang in Hector's head.

*Do you love me brother? I found this kitten.*

*Do you love me brother? I've torn my robe.*

*Do you love me brother? I've spilt my soup.*

*Do you love me brother? I've broken your spear.*

"What?" he asked, not as harshly as he should, because his own hands were still trembling a little and Paris's dirty face still showed the tracks of his tears.

Paris looked up at him through his eyelashes. Hector thought for a moment. A ride? Where was the horse? And, why had Paris's own horse, a small, staid pony, still been in the stables when Hector had torn through them calling frantically for his brother?

"I took father's horse. And he ran away when I stopped at the sea."

Paris looked up at him innocently, with huge unquestioning eyes, trusting Hector to stand between him and a scolding.

Groaning, Hector directed his men to look for his father's horse, and tugged reprovingly at one of Paris's wayward curls. Satisfied, Paris snuggled into his brother's chest and Hector returned home to protect Paris from anyone, even their own father, and even when he deserved it.

***

Hector tried to feel sorry for what he'd done, as he stood over his brother Mestor, who nursed his split lip and spat blood and a tooth out onto the floor.

He knew he should feel bad. He was the leader of the army, and much older and infinitely stronger than his brother, and he had no right to hit him. Particularly when, he knew, Mestor had not been entirely at fault. He knew what Paris had done, but that knowledge had no power over the image of Paris's shocked, hurt eyes, and even less against the bruise darkening Paris's fine jaw.

He'd come across them standing inches apart, yelling at each other. Mestor, at twenty, was five years older, and a good thirty pounds heavier than Paris. This had, apparently, held little weight with the lovely Rachel, who had been Mestor's girlfriend until Paris had turned his eye on her.

"You little rat. You spoiled little brat." Mestor yelled.

"What?" Paris raised an eyebrow mockingly. "It's not my concern if you can't keep a girlfriend."

Mestor had stepped towards Paris with bloody murder on his face and Hector had intervened.

"What's going on here?"

They had both turned to face him.

"That little *bitch* was kissing my girlfriend."

"How dare you..."

"Paris!" Hector said, firmly, letting his disapproval show. Paris looked a little guilty and turned away.

"Mestor, don't speak to your brother like that. If Rachel's head can be so easily turned, you probably don't want her as your girlfriend, anyway."

Hector thought that probably didn't sound very convincing. It would take an extremely strong will to deny Paris, and Hector suspected that Paris had only looked at Rachel particularly because she Mestor's girlfriend and the thought of a pretty young girl denying a serious seduction from Paris was laughable.

Mestor was almost the only person in Troy who had not fallen to Paris's charms, and Hector suspected that was because Paris had never made any attempt to get along with him, quite the reverse. Their other brothers and sisters, with the exception of Cassandra, had all swallowed their jealousy and come to adore him. Mestor, Hector knew, still burned with jealousy at Paris's place in all of Troy's affections. Hector suspected him of being the one who told Paris so long ago of the plan to abandon him at birth, because although Paris had never said, his continued dislike spoke louder than words. Hector guiltily knew that this suspicion had made Mestor his own least favorite sibling.

"He's hardly my brother," Mestor hissed now in anger. "At least he wouldn't have been if father had abandoned him to *die* like he meant to."

Paris gasped and turned deathly pale, eyes huge in his face. Hector's fists clenched.

"You bastard," Paris whispered. He then drew himself up and his voice got increasingly louder. "No wonder Rachel came to me. She said you were a nasty, horrible boyfriend, and she was only going with you because you were a Prince, that you smelled, had a tiny penis, kissed like a frog..."

He got no further as Mestor's fist lashed out and connected with his jaw.

Hector barely registered Paris stagger backwards, as his own blood surged and the next thing he knew he was standing over Mestor, his fist throbbing.

"Go to your rooms, Mestor," he said, in a voice that was quiet, but unsteady.

Mestor scrambled away, and Hector turned to face Paris.

Paris was nursing his jaw, face still pale and his hand trembling.

"Let me look," he said softly.

He moved Paris's hand gently and touched the sensitive flesh, wincing when Paris winced.

"It's OK, nothing broken, just a bruise," he told Paris in relief. He resisted the urge to press a kiss to the abused flesh.

A tear rolled silently down Paris's cheek, and Hector suddenly wished Mestor were still here to pay some more for that tear.

"Hey, it can't hurt that badly," he teased gently.

Paris snorted softly, meeting Hector's eyes and they both knew he wasn't crying because of his jaw.

No one else could possibly know. No one but Hector. They all saw the confident, beautiful prince who held the hearts of all of Troy in his graceful, careless hands, and didn't see the young boy still plagued by nightmares of being abandoned by those who should love him most. Paris still suffered at night, although not as often, and he still came to Hector for comfort.

Although it had wrung his heart, Hector had, however, recently been sending Paris back to his own bed when the nightmares came after a few minutes of reassurance. A Prince of Troy shouldn't be running to his big brother at night. And there were other reasons, now that Paris was fifteen and Hector only human despite what Troy might think.

"He was right, though," Paris said softly.

"It didn't happen, Paris. You're here and, let's face it, our parents love you best of all," he joked.

"Because of you," Paris looked into his eyes and Hector's heart beat a little harder.

"Well, I am a hero, you know," he said lightly, mocking himself and the recent celebration in his honor.

"Yes, you are," Paris said seriously.

Hector straightened, when he realised he had been leaning towards Paris.

"Still," he said sternly, "you shouldn't have kissed Rachel."

Paris shrugged casually, the moment broken. "I can't help it if I'm irresistible."

Hector met Paris's eyes, but refused to understand the challenge in them.

***

Hector looked up as his chamber was noisily entered.

Paris hurried over.

"They said you were hurt!" His voice was accusing, as if Hector had deliberately been wounded.

Hector shrugged, "It's just a scratch, Paris."

Paris studied Hector's leg intently. The servant girl was finishing up the stitches for the gash on his thigh.

"What are you doing?" He demanded of the girl.

Flustered the girl looked up and Hector winced slightly as she pulled too tightly.

"My Lord Paris," she said, blushing under his intense gaze, "I, I am just finishing up the stitches, then I shall bathe the wound," she gestured as a steaming bowl at her side, "and then I shall bandage the leg to protect the stitches."

She finished the stitches in the next moment, her hand shaking a little, but when she reached for the cloth in the bowl, Paris stopped her.

"Leave us," he said, briskly. "I shall do it."

"Paris, let the girl finish."

Hector was ignored as Paris scowled at the girl, storm clouds across the sun on his face.

"Leave us," he said again. The girl fled, not sparing Hector a second glance.

Hector sighed. As the firstborn Prince, and future King of Troy, he felt his wishes shouldn't be ignored that way, but he was fair to the servants, whereas Paris could be moody. Charming and irresistible one moment, angry and cruel the next. He could always charm back those who he offended, however, and his moods made him no less loved, indeed made those around him all the more anxious to please, to not see Paris frown.

Hector knew himself to be no more immune than the serving girl to Paris's charms, and so he had begun to avoid Paris in private, and his too knowing eyes.

Paris sat on the bed and Hector shifted.

"I can do it," he said, but Paris ignored him and picked up the cloth. Hector hissed in a breath as it stung his leg.

"Must you do everything, Hector?" Paris asked.

"Well, I did have someone else to do it, before you sent her away," he reminded Paris with a small smile.

Paris ignored him, concentrating on his task.

"You think all of Troy rests on your shoulders. You take responsibility for everything, Hector," Paris reproved.

"And you for nothing," Hector shot back, suddenly angry at being criticised by his careless young brother, whose scrapes, now more with young girls than broken toys or missed baths, Hector was still dealing with.

Paris looked up as he replaced the cloth.

"Perhaps I am not allowed to," he replied calmly. "You should let me out on the field."

He should, Hector knew. He really should. Paris was the only one of his brothers that did not go into battle for Troy, and Hector, and all his other brothers, had gone into the field at sixteen.

At seventeen, so nearly a man, Paris had grown tall, if still slender and much shorter than Hector. His skills with a bow surpassed even Hector's, and he showed great reflexes and swiftness with the sword and the spear, even if he lacked brute strength and endurance. Those could, however, come with time.

Still, Hector told himself, he did not practice as he should. He still had a casual attitude, seemingly to not realise the importance of his lessons and that, Hector told himself, was why he refused to let his youngest brother into battle.

"When you are ready," Hector said gruffly. "You must keep practicing. War is no game."

Paris smiled slightly as if he didn't quite believe Hector's reasoning.

"Are you done?" Hector asked, shifting uncomfortably.

"No!" Paris's hand on Hector's belly stayed him. "I must bandage the leg so the stitches are protected."

Hector froze under this gentle, intimate touch as though the hand were made of iron.

Paris picked up the bandages and set to work.

"Father was saying that you should have a wife, by now Hector. Someone to tend to your wounds, to come home from battle to."

*I have you.*

Hector looked away and shrugged. "Soon enough. I do keep busy, you know." He tried for lightness, but his voice fell flat.

Paris's fingers brushed against the skin of his thigh and he jumped slightly. Paris smiled.

"It wouldn't take long, you know." He grinned wickedly at Hector. "I hear the ladies talking about you, you know, and it wouldn't take long at all to catch a wife."

Hector blushed uncomfortably under Paris's gaze.

"You know, a girl I was... ah, 'talking' to the other day spoke continually of you. While we were... talking, she told me of past 'conversations' she had had with you. She admired your, ah, conversational technique, how you 'talked' to her as if she were the only one who mattered, how you seemed really interested in allowing her to 'talk' first, how strong you were, how considerate..."

"Paris!" Hector broke into Paris's low and intimate stream of words. "I think that is enough," he said roughly, gesturing to the bandages.

Paris looked speculatively at his brother, then shrugged. "As you wish."

He tore off the rest and secured the bandage.

"There," he said in satisfaction.

He looked up at his brother.

"You must be careful in the field," he said softly, serious now. "We need you. I need you."

Paris lowered his head slowly, keeping his eyes on Hector's and pressed his soft, pink lips gently to Hector's thigh and kissed the bandage.

Hector's heart pounded.

"I need to rest, Paris." He was amazed that his voice sounded almost like a plea.

Paris smiled at him, and Hector was surprised to see tenderness on his brother's beautiful, usually careless face.

"Yes, Hector," he said softly, standing up, but as he did he dropped a swift kiss onto Hector's head. "You rest. You'll need your strength."

Paris looked back with a gentle smile as he slipped out.

Hector was reminded of when he'd taken his brother fishing. Paris had enjoyed sitting by the riverside, spending time with his brother, but had thrown back almost all the fish, saying the smaller ones weren't ready.

He wondered how long Paris would continue to throw him back.

***


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betaed by and dedicated to the Goddess of H/P [](http://montmorency.livejournal.com/profile)[**montmorency**](http://montmorency.livejournal.com/).

***

The celebrations were well underway. The recent battle was over, and the Spartans had once again been repelled from Troy’s shores.

Hector was exhausted, although he stood straight and tall next to his father, trying not to focus on the dull agony in his ribs, where two had been broken by a heavy sword. His armour had kept it from being a fatal blow, but the power behind it had still been enough to crack bones. In addition, his shoulders and back ached horribly from simple exhaustion. The intense fighting in the final push to rid his land of the invaders had been hard, and no easier for his damaged ribs.

He met his brother Echemmon’s eyes over the crowd of richly dressed men and women, drinking and dancing. Echemmon raised his glass apologetically and Hector nodded wryly back. He envied his other brothers, and the other members of his army’s command, who did not have to stand as he did in the spotlight. Did not have to appear as a visible symbol of reassurance that Troy was safe again; standing over the city like a sentinel and none the worse for wear. Still ready, always ready, to defend his country.

Neither the members of the court celebrating this evening, nor the citizens of Troy looking up to him from the street celebrations tomorrow, would know about his sore ribs or his aching back. They would not see the hands that were covered in raw calluses from wielding his weapons over and over, or the new set of scars all over his body, that described in delicate red script the toll each battle took upon his flesh.

He watched as Echemmon slipped away, to go no doubt to rest. To sleep in his wife’s arms, safe and glad - much more glad than the joyful celebrants of victory - that tomorrow would not snatch him away from her for good.

His eyes fell on his only remaining brother at the party. Paris who, at not quite eighteen, was the only one of his brothers not tired from the fight, as Hector had not yet allowed him to join the army. He was, as he had been all evening, clear in Hector’s line of sight. Hector knew that even though he himself was the focus of most eyes this night, Paris, as always, drew his share of attention.

Hector watched his brother dancing with a young woman whose name he did not remember.

To Hector, Paris symbolised what he fought for. He was carefree and beautiful, full of light and love – how Hector always thought of his home. How he thought of Troy. It was this, of course, that made him always seek out his brother to watch.

It was not because his brother glowed in the candlelight; his burnished curls and golden skin reflecting the light. Catching the eye and holding it. Not because he moved with the grace of a cat, nor because his body was slender and strong. Not because Hector knew that his curls were as soft as they looked and his skin just as smooth.

Paris turned his eyes to look at him, and Hector looked quickly away, deliberately catching the eye of Andromache, who stood nearby as she always seemed to these days.

She congratulated him on the victory and asked him if the Spartans would be back.

They would, he knew. And if not they, then Agamemnon’s avaricious eye would soon fall on them as it had fallen on so many of the neighbouring countries in recent times.

Agamemnon was waiting, Hector suspected, until he had conquered all other Aegean Kingdoms and realised his dream of ‘Greece’, to come for them. Troy would be the hardest of all of the kingdoms to take, and so they were safe, Hector believed, until he had the others. But then – and sooner than Hector had hoped with the way the wars were going - but then, Agamemnon’s hideous, insatiable ambition would drive him across the sea. To bring an army, an army huge and terrible, to crash against Troy’s walls like angry waves.

Hector’s ribs throbbed, mocking him, as he thought about standing between Agamemnon’s army and Troy.

“They will not be back,” he smiled at her, meeting her lovely, trusting eyes. “Troy is safe.”

His eyes fell on his brother again and this time their eyes met. Hector did not think about safe, comfortable lies.

***

Later that same night, although it seemed to Hector days or even years later, the celebrations were finally over, and Hector was able to retreat, grateful and bone weary, to his rooms.

The night had been interminable. He didn’t even try to stifle his groan as he collapsed onto his bed.

“Long night?”

Hector didn’t jump. He would like to have said that was because of his battle-hardened nerves of steel, but it was in fact because he had been half-expecting Paris.

“You didn’t seem to notice.” Hector replied, thinking of the steady stream of women Paris had entertained throughout the evening.

“I noticed,” Paris said quietly, stepping over to the bed. “Your ribs are still hurting you.” It wasn’t a question.

“Did it show?” Hector asked, frowning. It would not do to look injured in front of those who depended on him so completely.

Paris laughed softly. “No one else will have noticed, brother, fear not. All Troy will be sleeping soundly in their beds. Except for you.”

Paris’s voice was full of warm concern, which seemed odd from his selfish brother and made him uncomfortable.

“The discomfort will soon pass. And I am too tired for it to keep me from sleep.”

Paris stood over him, and it seemed wrong somehow to be lying down, so Hector forced his weary body up into a sitting position.

“Come,” Paris said, “you are exhausted.” He knelt on the bed behind Hector and removed the gold leaves from Hector’s head and put them to one side. Hector caught his hand when he went to unfasten his robes.

There was a silence as Hector held Paris’s wrist, which felt bizarrely delicate in his large hand. The skin was silky smooth under Hector’s fingers, but Paris’s pulse was strong and steady. Far steadier than Hector’s own.

“Your shoulders hurt, too, Hector. I could feel the tension from across the room. Let me help you.”

Paris’s voice was soothing and his other hand moved gently to untie Hector’s robe at the other shoulder. Paris’s finger’s brushed against his skin, and Hector released his brother’s wrist in confusion.

He allowed Paris to slip the robe off his shoulders until it pooled at his waist. He grabbed at it and held it to him, as though he expected Paris to wrench it from his grasp.

Paris didn’t.

“Lie down, Hector. Just rest,” Paris said soothingly.

Hector obeyed silently, lying down on his front. Paris pulled the sheets up over his waist and Hector removed his robes and threw them on the floor.

He closed his eyes, grateful at last to be in his bed, to stop carrying the weight of Troy’s future, of its expectations, of its safety, on his shoulders.

Hector felt strong slender fingers on his back and moaned as they rubbed his shoulders firmly. He should protest; he really should. But it felt so good; strong, caring fingers soothing away the pain.

“Paris,” he said softly.

“Relax, Hector,” Paris said, “I will take care of you.”

Sure that he should stop Paris, but unable to gather the will, Hector lay there, feeling the horrors of the day seep slowly out of his body.

He was almost asleep when Paris stopped and dropped a kiss on his shoulders. He was aware of Paris lying down beside him, but he kept his eyes closed, feigning sleep so he didn’t have to stop him.

When he woke the next morning, Paris had gone, but his scent remained on the sheets. Hector rolled over onto his stomach and breathed in the scent, grinding his hips into the bed.

Today he would fulfil his duty to Troy. Today he would begin his suit of Andromache.

***

“Greetings, brother.”

Hector stiffened at the words, but did not look up from the sword he was sharpening. Although there were armourers and servants aplenty to perform this task, Hector had always preferred to do it himself. He took comfort from the ritual, from his control over the instrument that preserved his life. And his city, too, although it had now been long months since he had been at war.

“Greetings, Paris,” he replied neutrally.

He could feel Paris’s presence across the room: the subtle shifting of air, the prickling of sensation, which seemed to be Paris’s constant companions. The charming, wilful boy had grown beyond even Hector’s expectation, to a beauty that almost burned in its intensity. He had turned eighteen last month, and Hector had barely been able to look at him as he fairly shone in proud delight during his celebratory feast.

“It won’t save you, you know,” Paris’s voice was low and amused.

Hector looked up in surprise at these words. Paris’s face glowed with suppressed amusement. It hurt Hector’s eyes to look at, so he turned back to his sword.

“What do you mean?”

“You always go to your sword when there’s something bothering you. Even something that no sword can save you from.”

“There is nothing bothering me,” Hector replied softly, aware of his brother’s approach.

“You are scared, brother. You cannot fool me.”

Stung, Hector stood, forcing himself to meet Paris’s eyes. “I am not afraid of you,” he said as firmly as he could.

Paris laughed, a sound Hector thought to be like the ringing of bells, or perhaps the clinking of chains.

“Of course not,” Paris replied. “I’m here to help you. To save *you*, this time, brother.”

You cannot save me, Hector thought wildly. I cannot save myself.

“We only have tonight,” Paris continued.

“Tonight?” Hector’s mouth was dry as forbidden images of the night swirled dizzyingly through his head.

“Your wedding is tomorrow, Hector,” Paris reminded him gently, looking up at him with shining eyes.

His wedding. He clung to the thought of Andromache, beautiful and kind, but the image of her drowned in his brother’s eyes.

“If you’re going to overcome your fear and not make a fool of yourself at the feast when you dance with your bride, you must learn quickly. I know you didn’t dance at my coming of age feast last month because you were afraid of looking foolish.”

Hector couldn’t stop his sigh of relief at his sudden reprieve when he realised what Paris was referring to. Of course. And he pretended not to notice Paris’s knowing smirk.

“I’ll manage,” he said, roughly, and stepped back, away from his brother.

“But you are Hector, Champion and Saviour of Troy.” Paris was only slightly mocking. “You mustn’t just *manage* at anything. You must be perfect. Here, you can practice with me.”

The sheer awfulness of that idea struck Hector with terror. Possibly it was the worst idea Paris had ever had, and he’d once thrown himself out of a window to see if Hector would catch him. He had. But there was no one there to catch Hector now.

Paris stepped into his space. Hector raised his hands to push him back, but as they touched Paris, he froze, unable to move. Trapped by Paris’s scent, by the flickering of candlelight on his curls.

Gently, as if taming a horse - a gift for which the Trojans, and Hector himself, were justifiably famed - Paris moved closer to stand against him. Hands that had crushed the life from many men were guided against their will with the gentlest of pressure to rest on Paris’s waist.

“There is no music,” Hector protested, weakly, as Paris began to move slowly, steering Hector with him.

Paris smiled, but did not reply. Hector’s hands burned where they touched his brother, and when Paris rested his head on Hector’s shoulders, Hector feared his heart would seize. Paris’s scent was as heady as the incense that burned in Aphrodite’s temple. Hector missed a step and stumbled slightly.

“You are not skilled at this, brother,” Paris said, looking up and smiling at him. “I never thought I’d find something at which you did not excel,” he mocked gently.

Hector shrugged. “I was made for other things.”

“Like war? This is not so different. You need to be surefooted and coordinated for both. The games of love and war are not so different, in truth.”

“This isn’t a *game*, Paris,” Hector said, almost desperately.

“Oh no,” Paris’s face was suddenly serious, and his eyes burned. To Hector they looked like the pits of Tartarus. “Not a game at all.”

There was silence for a moment.

“Do you love her?” Paris asked suddenly.

Hector did not answer for a long moment, not with Paris’s curls so close they tickled his senses.

“Andromache is beautiful inside as *well* as outside,” he eventually replied, truthfully.

Paris snorted, derisively.

“But do you *love* her? Do you search for her in every crowd? Is time apart from her a misery? Does she haunt you waking and asleep? Does she stir your soul and fill you with passion? Does she leave you breathless and trembling? Does your soul cry out her name and your heart beat faster every time she is near? Do you look at her and know you will have no rest until you touch her?”

Paris’s face was ablaze with emotion and Hector was struck dumb by its glory. Finally Paris stepped back, releasing Hector from his spell, and Hector stumbled backwards until his legs hit the table.

“Enjoy your wedding tomorrow, Hector. Hold her as you held me just now. Look into her eyes as you looked into mine. And remember.”

He kissed Hector gently on the cheek, a mere hairsbreadth from his lips, and left Hector grasping the table for support.

***

Tomorrow he would be married. Lying in bed later that night, Hector knew he should be happy. Everybody else was. There would be celebrations in the street and his father and mother were pleased with him. They had felt their eldest son, the *heir* to their throne, was frankly a little late to married life, and they had been extremely pleased when Hector had finally pursued Andromache.

Andromache had proved as lovely in spirit as she was in face, but Hector was honest enough to know that her gentle loveliness paled against the goddess-blessed perfection of Paris. Her gentle soul didn’t hold a candle to the fiery spirit of his brother. When he’d looked in his brother’s eyes earlier that evening, he’d thought his heart would burst with love and desire. He’d barely remembered Andromache’s name.

Irritably, Hector rose from his bed. His skin felt itchy and his spirit restless. He grasped a robe and decided to take a walk for some fresh air, to clear his head and cool his flesh.

He walked through the silent corridors of the castle, thinking bleak thoughts about his future and the future of Troy, when he realised that his feet had taken him towards Paris’s rooms. He paused outside the door to his brother’s chambers. The door was slightly open; the dim candlelight from within an almost unbearable tease, suggesting his brother was awake within. Perhaps he was pacing, like Hector, tormented. Hector smiled at the thought of his carefree brother troubled by morals. Undoubtedly he was sleeping the sleep that could only be attained by the innocent, or those so truly damned they knew not right from wrong.

Or perhaps he was bathing. Perhaps, like Hector, he found the night too cloying, perhaps he, too, remembered their encounter in the armoury and it caused his skin to itch as well. Vivid images, obscene in their clarity, flashed through Hector’s mind - of his brother pouring water over his slick tanned skin, all tight smooth muscle and pure, silken flesh.

A low moan escaped him, and Hector forced himself to turn away before his unruly feet carried him inside.

“Looking for me?”

Hector did jump then, as he realised he’d been too preoccupied to notice his brother sitting in the shadows by the window in the corridor outside his room.

“Paris! What are you doing out here?”

Paris didn’t move, his face still shadowed.

“I had a nightmare,” Paris said quietly. “And you don’t like me to come to your rooms anymore,” he said, matter of factly.

That was certainly true, but he hadn’t realised Paris had been controlling himself – hadn’t imagined that was even possible – he’d merely thought the nightmares had stopped.

“You’re safe,” Hector said, repeating words he had whispered into soft brown curls, soothing away sobs, for 13 years now, “no one is going to take you away from here. No one will *ever* take you away.”

“And what about you, brother, will someone take you away?” Paris asked, and his voice held something Hector had never heard in it before.

Hector didn’t answer, and Paris continued.

“I can see your rooms from here, brother,” he said as he looked out through the window. Hector followed his gaze and realised that the chamber with the dimly lit interior visible across the courtyard was, indeed, his own.

“What will I see in there tomorrow? Will that be all I see of you once you’re married? Far off glimpses and ghostly shadows?”

Hector wanted to laugh at his brother’s overly melodramatic words, but, moving closer, he could see the faint shimmer of tears on Paris’s face. He was no more able to resist them now than he had ever been.

“It won’t be like that, Paris. You’ll always be my brother.”

Paris made a noise, which might have been a laugh; this time his voice was a little harder.

“Yes. Of course.” Paris’s face was clear now, the vulnerability from his nightmare disappearing and the confidence of their earlier encounter returning.

He got up off the windowsill and moved gracefully towards Hector.

“Strange, though, how I do not see you watching Echemmon the way you watch me. Funny, how it is not Mestor’s rooms you came to this night.”

“I was just walking,” Hector said weakly, mesmerised by the shine of Paris’s hair in the moonlight, the graceful curve of his neck, the fire in his eyes.

“No,” Paris said firmly, his hand drifting up to touch the side of Hector’s face. “No, you weren’t *just* anything, Hector.”

Hector shivered as slowly, very slowly, Paris’s hand traced down his neck and shoulder, down his arm to take hold of Hector’s hand.

He raised Hector’s hand gently to his face and pressed it to his cheek. Hector felt the smooth skin pulled tight over delicate cheekbones against his rough fingers and trembled.

When Paris moved his hand and pressed his soft lips to Hector’s palm, Hector felt his knees go weak.

“Let go,” he whispered hoarsely.

“No,” Paris replied, his lips moving against the soft flesh of Hector’s wrist as he spoke.

“Let me go,” Hector repeated, knowing it sounded more like a plea than a demand.

“No.” Paris looked at him and his eyes burned. “No, I’m not letting you go. Not tonight.”

He clasped Hector’s hand loosely in his and led him into his chambers. Hector knew he shouldn’t go, but was powerless to resist the gentle pull.

When they reached the centre of his chamber, still a safe distance from the bed, Paris turned to face him.

He smiled, and his face was almost kind.

“Don’t look so miserable, Hector, I won’t hurt you.”

“I shouldn’t want this.”

“It is not wrong, Hector. You love me, and the Gods themselves love their siblings like this.” Paris stroked Hector’s face gently, in a gesture more of comfort than seduction.

“We are not Gods,” Hector replied, looking down, unable to look at his brother’s face. Knowing the tenderness there would break him even more swiftly than the beauty.

“Hush,” Paris said, and he tilted his head up to kiss Hector. “Tonight we can be.”

Paris’s lips were soft and yet demanding and Hector opened helplessly to them.

He felt something between a moan and a sob escape him as he realised just how very damned he was as he tasted his brother.

Paris was touching him, strong, slender fingers trailing over his chest, dipping beneath his robes. Hector pulled away with a gasp, shivering.

Paris smiled at him and he looked, to Hector’s eyes, like one of the Gods he said they could be.

“Come, Hector,” he said, holding out his hand. “Love me.”

Hector went.

He laid his brother down on the bed and Paris allowed him to set the pace. He braced himself over Paris and his hand trembled as it moved to caress the soft, smooth skin of Paris’s chest, feeling for the sensitive places, bravely touching the bronzed nipple.

Paris made a sound, a soft moan that went to Hector’s head like the finest of strong wines. He must hear it again.

Daring, he pressed his lips to the sensitive nub and Paris arched. Emboldened by this, Hector moved down, pressing his lips to the soft skin, moving down to Paris’s smooth, flat belly.

He stayed there, delighting in the tender flesh, remembering stolen glimpses of taut smooth flesh exposed when his brother moved.

Paris’s hands threaded though his hair, caressing him, until he tentatively thrust his tongue into Paris navel when the grip tightened.

“Take me, Hector,” Paris said softly. “Show me how much you love me.”

Hector’s cock throbbed painfully and he pressed his face into Paris’s belly, unsure of what he was hiding from.

Gently, Paris guided him up his body and spread his legs to settle Hector between them. He pulled Hector down to kiss him. Hector tasted sweet wine, arousal and fire in Paris’s mouth and he moaned. Paris’s hands pushed his robes off his shoulders and caressed down his back. Hector shuddered and pressed his groin instinctively into the body underneath his.

Paris, clearly more in control than Hector was feeling, pulled both his and Hector’s robes off as they kissed and Hector’s cock pressed finally against bare skin, against the smooth flesh of Paris’s belly.

“Gods,” he said, burying his face in Paris’s neck. “Paris.”

Paris stroked his back and kissed his hair before gently pushing him up. Paris’s eyes were black and Hector stared at him dumbly as he reached beside the bed and dipped his fingers in a small vessel of oil.

When Paris’s slick hands grasped his cock he closed his eyes, fearing he would find his release immediately if he watched. Paris stroked him firmly and Hector shuddered.

As Paris guided him into his tight, hot body, they both moaned. Hector pressed firmly against him, feeling his heart beat against his brother’s heart.

He held Paris clasped tightly to him as nature took over and he began thrusting slowly, firmly into his brother’s body.

He realised he was speaking, and he pressed his mouth against Paris’s shoulder to disguise the dangerous words of devotion against the hot skin.

Paris was kissing him; pressing his lips against his hair and his face, and when he arched in ecstasy and pressed his lips to Hector’s ear and told him he loved him, Hector found his release deep inside his brother’s body.

Hector continued to hold his brother tightly, rolling him and cradling him against his chest as he collapsed down onto the bed. Paris snuggled into him.

They lay there for a moment, catching their breath. Sense return slowly and Hector felt the first fingertips of horror crawl up his spine at what he had done.

Paris pushed himself up onto his elbow to look down at Hector. His lips were swollen and his curls framed his face. He had never looked so beautiful.

“You’re mine, Hector,” Paris whispered, gently stroking Hector’s cheek. His eyes were tender, but his voice was firm. “You’re mine.”

Hector nodded dumbly, feeling the truth of it burnt onto his soul.

Paris smiled and bent his head down towards his brother; the soft kiss a reward that Hector obediently raised his head an inch to receive.

Satisfied, Paris snuggled down against him. Hector opened his arms automatically to him, forming a protective circle against the rest of the world. The irony that it was he, Hector, that needed protection was not lost on him, as he listened to Paris’s soft breathing as his brother fell asleep.

Hector lay awake. He couldn’t sleep with the feel of his brother’s skin against his, the scent of him filling Hector’s senses.

He lay awake thinking of the morrow and how he would stand beside Andromache while still feeling the imprint of his brother’s body against his, the brand of his ownership on his heart.

He told himself that it must not happen again, but even as he did he knew he would die to be allowed between his brother’s thighs even just one more time.

***


End file.
